


The Long Con

by MercurySkies



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Art Forgery, Con Artists, Forgery, Getting Back Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Partners to Lovers, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-08-21 06:51:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16571744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercurySkies/pseuds/MercurySkies
Summary: '“Why do you have a gun?!”“I’m an ex-con artist living in L.A. of course I have a fucking gun! Why don’t you have a gun?”“Because I’m not a fucking psycho!” Shane gives him a look that suggests he feels that’s debatable. “And I don’t wanna kill anyone!”“Neither do I!” Shane glances apprehensively at the door “But it might be handy to shoot someone in the foot so they don’t shoot me in the head! Now. How. Many.”'They were partners in more than just crime once. A bad print job and a forged Degas later and Ryan has nowhere to turn but to the one man he swore he'd never see again, the man made all the more dangerous for the fact he had loved him once.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well howdy we're back on the wagon lads and have I got a rambunctious rootin' tootin' story for you! A cheeky little con artist and art forgery tale for your perusin'. Not sure how often I'll update cause I have a job and all that good stuff but this multichapter is planned from beginning to end so there will be one, even if it takes a wee bit to get us there.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Ryan is nervous. He stands outside an outstandingly average apartment in an entirely average complex, in an undoubtedly mediocre neighbourhood in L.A. and wonders how his life came to this. He’s been hiding out in a run down motel for three days now. Three days is risky, he should have been gone after the first 24 hours, but he’s getting desperate. He’s been through 7 burner phones, reaching out to anyone and everyone he’s met over the years that’s at least remotely trustworthy. He has to be desperate to be standing here, on the doorstep of the one man he vowed never to set eyes on again. But desperate times call for desperate measures, the FBI and several criminal organisations are out for his blood. All this for a Degas and a few phoney bills? What has he become?

He knocks hesitantly, shoves his sweaty hands into the pockets of tailored slacks and waits. Ryan is nervous but Ricky wouldn’t be. Ricky, his alter ego, is the definition of a smooth criminal. But Ryan, Ryan stands on the doorstep of the most dangerous man he’s ever known, made all the more dangerous considering this man had loved him once. The sound of locks clicking and the door handle turning seems to echo throughout the hallway in which he waits, with bated breath, as the door inches open.

The man that faces him blinks blearily, half awake. “Oh fuck no.” He mutters when he recognises him, gaping at Ryan from the doorway, shocked awake. Ryan stares back, barely able to breathe at the sight before him. Shane Madej, world’s most talented forger, a slight of hand artist that could rob you of your life savings with a simple coin trick, stands before him in flannel PJ pants and a well-worn t-shirt, sporting bed head and the dorkiest clear framed glasses perched on his nose.

“Hello to you too big guy.” Ryan says eventually, and his voice is painfully breathy, the same fondness colouring the nickname without his permission.

He doesn’t know what to do with this civilian Shane. This ordinary, run of the mill Shane who’s sleep soft and comfortable and at home. The last time he had seen him it had been on a bridge in St Petersburg, he’d told him that this life wasn’t enough for him anymore and that he’d never be enough for Ryan. That was the end, partners in crime since they were teenagers and they had walked away from each other. Ryan remembers that Shane vividly, roguish, long black frock coats and leather gloves, tall, dark, proud yet unassuming. This Shane is different, or he’s the same just, in a different light. Stealing a Fabergé in St Petersburg in November is not August in a video producer’s L.A. apartment.

“To what do I owe the pleasure Ryan?” Shane says with a sardonic smile. Some hard feelings then, he guesses, and Shane crosses his arms, still as tall and intimidating as he can be when his eyes narrow and his lips thin into a displeased line.

“Ricky.” Ryan corrects automatically and Shane rolls his eyes with a sigh, moves to close the door. “No! Wait, I’m sorry. Shane-” He starts, letting his true desperation show. It gives Shane pause and when he looks up from the door jam, Ryan sees the familiar fire in his eyes that always used to light whenever Ryan called his name.

“You’ve never been Ricky to me and you never will be.” He says through the crack in the door. He looks over Ryan’s shoulder before opening the door wide, gesturing for him to enter. Ryan walks into Shane’s apartment and gazes around the place with awe. He watches as Shane moves around the space with ease, flicking on lamps and moving toward the kitchenette to start up the coffee maker. “Sit. Talk. You have 10 minutes.” He commands, leaning against the breakfast bar, unimpressed eyebrow raised. So Ryan does what he does best, he talks.

He keeps it vague, gives him a spiel about a Degas and the Metropolitan, a spot of bother with the mob. Shane tuts and scoffs, disapproval practically oozing from him.

“All of this for impressionism Ryan, really? Have standards really fallen so low? And Male Nude? The Metropolitan? Pedestrian.” Shane criticises and for some reason the remarks sting a lot more than they would have done before.

“When did you become an art snob?” He questions and Shane rolls his eyes again, a habit Ryan hopes gives him plenty of migraines.

“Since I started stealing from them Ryan, it’s inevitable.” He replies as if it’s obvious. It is really, Shane has always been picky, refusing to forge anything he doesn’t like himself. He used to say it was about morals, that if he couldn’t produce work to be forged then he himself would only forge the best. The best evidently didn’t often include any impressionist painters.

“You don’t steal from them anymore.” Ryan says, and it sounds waspish, accusatory, as if Shane owes him something. Shane doesn’t rise to it, refuses to feel the guilt Ryan for some reason wishes he felt.

“You’re right. I don’t.” He says, his voice hard. “So why are you here?” He sips at his coffee in a way that feigns disinterest but Ryan knows him better, knows that Shane is an impeccable actor but it seems years out of the game have made him rusty and Ryan has always known his tells.

“I need your help.”

Shane scoffs. “Of course.” His voice is bitter sounding, tinged with disappointment although he appears resigned. “What is it? A forgery? An alibi? A hideout? A fence?”

“A partner.” Ryan interrupts him. “For a long con, forgery, fencing, the lot. If we pull this off the FBI and mafia will be off my scent for a lifetime, heck I wouldn’t have to pull a con ever again.” Ryan feels excitement bubble within him just at the mere notion of it, this would be it, the big time, the Super Bowl, the World Series.

Shane’s lips twitch into a fond smile, one that would’ve been rare five years ago but now seems much easier for him to come by. “Like you’ll ever give it up.” He laughs somewhat sadly. “You love it too much. The planning. The execution. It’s like a drug.”

“I can give it up if I want to.” Ryan remarks, defensively, almost petulant and Shane’s face seems to fall, eyes shuttering up, gaze guarded.

“Yeah of course, you just don’t want to.” Silence falls on the apartment, broken only by a hoarse sounding meow that startles Ryan. A large ginger cat, plods into the kitchen and proceeds to rub itself against Shane’s flannel covered legs. It’s a mess of a thing, it’s tail slightly bent at the tip, missing an eye and with several nicks out of it’s left ear. Ryan watches in amazement as Shane places his cup down on the counter and picks the dishevelled thing up, scratching it under the chin as he cradles it in his arms like a giant grumpy looking fur baby.

“You have a cat.” He says lamely.

“I do.” Shane states and he kisses the cat’s forehead and Ryan can’t reconcile the man in front of him with the man he’s seen conning a casino in Milan out of millions of dollars in three games of blackjack. “His name is Steve. He’s a big dumb tom I found out on the street. He’s so stupid I swear-” he coos at... _Steve_ and he continues to look like he’s barely tolerating the attention despite the sheer volume of his purr that suggests otherwise. Ryan thinks Steve is a stupid name for a cat and also that his throat might close up soon so he needs an answer from Shane, quickly.

As if reading his mind Shane fixes him with a contemplative look. “What’s the job? Not another impressionist?”

“No.” Ryan says grinning and he knows, he knows he’s got him. “Waterhouse.” He says simply and Shane drops Steve, thankful that cats land on their feet.

“Fuck it, I’m in.”

 

* * *

 

 _November, St Petersburg, Bank Bridge (_ _Банковский мост_ _)_

 

“You and your superstitions.” Shane says fondly, placing his hand over Ryan’s where it rubs the metal paw of one of the griffins that adorn the bridge they’re resting on. “We’ve already made our fortune, what good is rubbing it’s damn paw now?” Ryan just laughs, turns and braces his hands on Shane’s chest, his shoulders seem even more broad in his long winter coat and he looks up at his face, beard thick, flecked with captured snowflakes. The cold suits Shane, his is the warmth in the dead of winter and he wears the season well.

“For next time idiot!” He says and Shane sighs. It breaks Ryan’s post con euphoria like the cracking of ice.

“Will there always be a next time?” He asks and Ryan knows, in his heart that Shane means ‘does there _have to_ be’ but he answers the question posed, unwilling to face the alternative, that there is anything more than there is right in front of them.  Shane pulls away from him, he rests his forearms against the bridge’s railing and stares sadly into the brackish water of the canal below. “Will it ever be enough? Hell I’m getting older Ryan, God knows there’s no pension plan, no security, a safety net for people like us. Is this all you want, forever?”

“Security? Safety? All?” Ryan parrots at him, trying to smile but he knows what this is, he knew it would come one day. He’d just thought they’d have more time. More time to steal and run and kiss. To see the sunrise over vineyards as they wake up entwined, millions in foreign bank accounts. Millions that are difficult to spend so they keep their modest apartments in New York, Chicago, L.A, Mexico, a sprinkling in Europe, tied up in different names, different lives, different versions of them in every city.

He wants to say what he’s said to Shane countless times before. I have all I want. You’re my security, you make me feel safe. But none of it are the three words Shane wants to hear, the words Ryan finds too final and too small for what they are.

But for Shane it’s all or nothing. He lives in absolutes or it’s none of his concern. It’s boom or bust. Shane looks at him as the snow falls slowly around them, it would be romantic if this were their beginning and not their end.

Shane just looks at him searchingly for a moment before he smiles, something sad that seems to age him. He seems to have found his answer in Ryan’s visage alone. “Okay, little guy.” He says quietly, weakly. He wraps his arm around Ryan’s waist and steers them from the bridge and the direction of their hotel.

That night Ryan doesn’t fall asleep until late, anxiety and dread coiling in his stomach as he lays sharing lazy, tender kisses with Shane in a plush king sized bed in a 5 star suite. Even when Shane falls asleep he watches him, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he snores and sniffles quietly. He tries to savour it, knows this is the last time he’ll get to see such a sight. Eventually his eyes fall shut and when he opens them again Shane is gone.

Morning light filters through the gaps in the drapes and he spots a piece of paper propped on the nightstand.

 

_Hey little guy,_

_Last chance. I guess it’s worth a shot._

 

The time of Shane’s flight and his gate number follows.

 

_All my love._

 

He signs it. Ryan knows it’s true. He really has it all. He has an hour till Shane’s flight leaves and he dresses and checks out, throws his things in a stolen Porsche and heads to the airport. He never makes it inside. He watches Shane’s plane head back to the States from the roof of the parking lot.

 

* * *

 

“Alright so actually give me the details. How’d you get into this mess in the first place then?” Shane asks pulling a couple of beers from the fridge and handing one to Ryan where he sits, stiff and adrift on the couch.

“So you’re a bud light kinda guy now?” Ryan asks, eyeing the bottle in his hand with distaste.

“I’m a drink up or get out kinda guy now.” Shane says unimpressed. He sinks into a worn looking armchair with a groan, and Steve leaps up to settle on the arm rest. “Tell me how you fucked up or fuck off.” He shrugs and Ryan is regretting ever coming here. This is Shane’s con now. Ryan needs him to pull this off, he’s the only one the world over with the particular skill set the job needs and it gives him leverage, Shane calls the shots and Ryan gives him what he wants or he’s left to the wolves.

“Bad print job.” He says roughly, taking a sip of his beer. Shane hums.

“Bonds?”

“Tender.”

“Bill?”

“Ben.” Shane laughs at that, makes the delighted little sound he always makes when he gets confirmation he’s right.

“Let me guess,” he starts scratching Steve behind a mangled ear, “with my plate.”

“ _Our_ plate.” Ryan rolls his eyes.

“What? Get joint custody did we? I don’t remember seeing it on weekends. Didn’t get to set a plate for ol’ Benny for Thanksgiving.”

“You quit the game Shane! What are you gonna do with a printing plate for the 100 dollar bill?” He asks indignant. Shane leans forward in his seat, edging closer.

“Keep it as a reminder that if I were to run it I’d be where you are, begging your ex- ex partner for help.”

“I never beg.” Ryan says, leaning forward to match Shane.

He catches the exact moment something ignites in the man across from him. He’s seen it before, so many times yet his heart still pounds like it did all those years ago. Brown eyes darken in an instant and a smirk plays across Shane’s mouth, lascivious and dangerous. “Oh _kochanie_ , we both know that isn’t true.”

It’s dazzling and his body flushes with heat all too familiar, remembering nights spent panting into Shane’s throat, sprawled across sweat dampened sheets in hotel rooms higher than the sky itself. A prickle of shame digs itself under his skin and somehow it makes it worse, sweat pooling under his collar. “I didn’t have to beg this time. The life of an average Joe getting boring?”

Shane snorts, leans back again and refuses to look at him. Instead he looks to his right and Ryan follows his gaze to land on a photo on the bookshelf. He stands, approaches it and is surprised to hear no protests from Shane. He simply devotes his attention to Steve, scratching him lovingly beneath the chin. “Girlfriend?” Ryan asks, an iota of bitterness coils in his gut at the term. Shane laughs mirthlessly.

“Ex.” He says and Ryan wishes he hadn’t asked. Shane looks wistful, a little sad. Ryan wonders if he’d looked like that after-

“Her name’s Sara. We were together for about 3 years. She just wasn’t feeling it anymore and I couldn’t explain why there are 6 locks on the door and a packed bag under my bed. We’re still friends.”

“Must be a saint to have put up with you.”

“Yeah she’s- she’s pretty great.” Shane shrugs.

“Do you love her?” Ryan asks and as soon as the question leaves his mouth he wishes he hadn’t asked it. He has no right to ask it, to be so curious about the life Shane has lead since he left.

“I do, in a way.” Shane says smiling, something soft and at peace. “Not like I did but she’s great, a real good dame you know?” He laughs, relaxes back into his chair as Steve curls up in his lap.

The Shane he sees in front of him is incongruous with the Shane he remembers but it’s possible there are things his mind omitted over the years, parts of the man in front of him he’s only just seeing thanks to a new perspective, to actually being allowed to. Hearing Shane talk about Sara, sitting in his home, petting the cat he clearly adores a wave of regret suddenly engulfs him “Shane-”

Three sharp raps on the front door echo throughout the apartment. Ryan looks at Shane expectantly. “How long have you been here?” Shane asks.

“About an hour.”

“In L.A, Ryan” Shane clarifies, fists clenching.

Ryan pauses before answering truthfully. “Three days.”

“Two too many. C’mon, watch the exits.” He disappears quickly into what Ryan assumes is his bedroom, displacing a disgruntled Steve in the process. In less than 3 minutes he’s back, clothes changed, a bag in hand and ushering a confused Steve into a black cat carrier. It would almost be funny, a stony faced Shane cajoling the old tom cat into the carrier, if they weren’t at imminent risk of being brutally murdered. Once Steve is safely secured, he throws open the living room window that leads out onto a fire escape. “How many?” He asks curtly, as he reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a sleek, black handgun.

“You have a fucking gun?” Ryan almost screeches. Shane blinks at him.

“Yeah...”

“Why do you have a gun?!”

“I’m an ex-con artist living in L.A. of course I have a fucking gun! Why don’t you have a gun?”

“Because I’m not a fucking psycho!” Shane gives him a look that suggests he feels that’s debatable. “And I don’t wanna kill anyone!”

“Neither do I!” Shane glances apprehensively at the door “But it might be handy to shoot someone in the foot so _they_ don’t shoot _me_ in the head! Now. How. Many.”

Ryan huffs, mouth clicking shut as he looks warily out the window. There doesn’t seem to be anyone waiting for them on the ground but people in their line of work are hardly conspicuous. “Five at least. Two at the door, probably another three in the parking lot.” Ryan’s heart hammers against his ribcage so hard it almost hurts but excitement simmers in his gut as Shane slips effortlessly into old habits. He checks the door, his belongings and he huffs a displeased sigh before clambering out onto the fire escape.

His first step out onto the fire escape falls too hard, the resulting metallic clang too loud and the raps on the front door turn to banging and then to the distinct splintering of wood that often accompanies someone throwing their weight against it. Ryan follows Shane out and then they’re flying, stumbling down the steps noisily, an inelegant getaway with Steve’s caterwauling the cacophonous soundtrack to what would make a killer movie montage. They hear shouts from below but don’t pause long enough to listen or look they simply run, down, down, down, until they reach the ladder and leap into the alley behind the complex.

“I hope you bought a car!” Shane yells, running unsteadily toward the parking lot.

“Bought?” Ryan replies with a breathless grin.

“Okay stole,” Shane pants “I hope you’ve stolen a car!”

Ryan digs around in his pocket for the key, curling his fingers around them as he ducks from a stray gunshot. He unlocks the car, the flashing headlights of a Lamborghini beckoning them from feet away. They careen to a halt and throw themselves and Steve into the car, screeching out of the parking lot and away from the life Shane had built.

“Inconspicuous as always.” Shane laughs, breathing heavily in the passenger seat. Ryan glances over as they merge into late night L.A. traffic, intent on hightailing it to somewhere safe. Shane’s grin is bright and open, he thrums with adrenaline, glowing as neon lights speed past them. They’ll be driving for a while, having to ensure that they aren’t being followed before finding somewhere to hideout, but Ryan doesn’t mind. Shane laughs with ease, eyes crinkling at the corners and Ryan wonders how he ever let him go. Ryan laughs with him, raucous and loud as they race through the city, hearts pounding.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time doesn't change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the response on the first chapter! Starting new multichapters is always a super nerve wracking experience. I really hope I can make this au something you can enjoy!

 

_November_

 

Shane sleeps on the plane. The moment he boards he starts to rearrange things in his head, pack up every con he’s ever run, every moment with Ryan, and stuff it in the attic of his mind, to gather dust, never to be opened again, mementos left behind for the next occupant or left to rot as his body decays. He knew Ryan wouldn’t follow him. Whilst waiting to board he’d kept looking but he knew in his heart of hearts that he wouldn’t come, there’d be no tearful reunion, no begging for him to stay. Despite the loud parties, the shambolic getaways, together they’re quiet, simple. They fit so effortlessly, Shane is going to miss it. It’s the only thing in his life he’s never had to work for.

As his flight is called he isn’t there, as he boards he isn’t there, careening onto the runway in that stupid fucking Porsche to declare he never wants to be without him. Shane doesn’t know when he became such a romantic but he certainly hates himself for it now, swallowing convulsively as he ducks onto the plane, resisting the urge to have one last look. He pulls down the shade once he’s seated, lets the sleeping pill tug him into blissful unconsciousness, eyes stinging.

He lands in Chicago. No family, no friends, no Ryan. Why he chose to return to Illinois he’ll never know. Maybe he’s trying to turn back the clock, a time before Ryan. A time when flooding the market with counterfeits to scorn the wealthy elite was just the anti-capitalist pipe dream of a young, weirdo of a white guy. He stays in a hotel for a few nights, wanders the city, but it isn’t home, it isn’t somewhere he can build one.

L.A is familiar, he started with street cons here. He pulled his first con in Chicago while he was in college, just a kid then with not a dime to his name, trying to feed himself and pay the rent. He simply didn’t stop, even when he moved to chase that dream of putting that film degree to good use. He graduated and with the move he graduated to the big leagues where he met Mister Big League himself, Ricky Goldsworth. L.A. is familiar for a reason. It feels closer to the idea of home he’s been chasing his whole adult life for one reason and one reason alone, it feels closer to Ryan.

 

* * *

 

“Thanks for this.” Shane says, handing Steve over to Sara in a deserted parking lot on the outskirts of L.A. The remnants of his cellphone that he’d used to ask her here lay sharp and shattered at his feet, bits of the screen still embedded in the sole of his boot.

“It’s no problem.” She smiles up at him. It really isn’t, she loves Steve, she was the one who had insisted they keep him. Silence washes over them and Sara glances between Shane and Ryan. Ryan leans nonchalantly against the Lamborghini, like he’s decidedly not listening when Shane knows he’s the biggest eavesdropper in the northern hemisphere and there’s no chance he isn’t catching every word.

“So this is it huh?” She says with a small sad smile “The bag, the locks? This is some real shit?” Shane laughs and it feels like someone is running a cheese grater across his heart. Funny how he can only tell her the truth now, when he’s just about to say goodbye.

“You dated a con man!” Shane cries “Surprise!” Sara giggles.

“I can’t imagine you’re a very good one. You’re a terrible liar.”

“Only to those that know me well.”

“And him?” She asks and there’s a sly look in her eye. There’s no hurt there and Shane is thankful for it, had agonised over losing her to bitterness he’d imbued. “Does he know you?” She asks wiggling her eyebrows at him. “In the biblical sense?”

“Sara!” Shane splutters, feeling his face heat. He pauses. “Yes. To both. Big mistake.”

“See there you go! Such a bad liar!” She laughs before hugging him tight around the waist. He buries his face in her curls, breathes in the familiar scent of her strawberry shampoo. He wonders if they’d be here if he had told her sooner.

“You knew this day would come. You were waiting for it, you were ready.” She says simply as if merely stating the facts.

“Sara... You and me... What we had was-”

“Real, I know. We loved each other, I don’t doubt you.” It’s cliche, it’s every closing scene for those lonely hearts that weren’t meant to be, that had something real, for a while, until it faded, couldn’t make up for what was lacking.

“Thank you.” He whispers into her hair, hugs her a little tighter. He won’t change his mind about going back to his old way of life but he knows he’ll miss this one, miss her with all his heart.

“You spent so long stealing from others you didn’t realise what’d been taken from you. By the time I came around somebody had already got to your heart and I’m betting it was him.”

“Well if you can read others as well as you read me I’d say you’d make a fine con artist Sara Rubin.” Shane laughs, choked and wet. He doesn’t teller her that she’s right. She already knows. Sara steps back, smiles at him bright and wide, tears waiting to fall.

“Bye Shane. Take care big guy.”

“Thank you, Sara.” He says, throat clicking, forbidding him from saying goodbye.

He watches her clamber into her car with Steve and drive away. She drives away with another life, another chance at home, passing him by. A sudden bitterness floods his mouth, his head aches and his body is screaming at him with fatigue. Away from the heat of the moment, of the thrills of yesteryear he resents this, resents having burnt everything at a drop of a hat all for Ryan without a hint of sacrifice in return. Even though he knows he would make this choice over and over, he hates the hold he has on him.

“I want to sleep.” He says sharply as they climb back into the car.

“We should really give it a couple more hours, maybe get out of town and-”

“I want to sleep.”

“Shane-” Ryan starts, ansty and frustrated but Shane’s patience, his generosity, has worn thin.

“Ryan. I just burnt five years of my life to the ground. I sent my fucking cat off with my ex-girlfriend to probably never see them again. I want. To go. The fuck. To sleep.”

Ryan turns the key in the ignition without a word and drops his guilty gaze to the road. Shane leans his head against the cool glass of the window, eyes closed, the familiar stinging means he can’t bear to have them open a moment longer. His own guilt curls a gnarled fist around his gut. This isn’t Ryan’s fault. He was in trouble and he sought the only person that could help him. A small part of Shane sings at being the only one that can save him from this mess but the rest simply writhes with unease. Shane can’t do this the way he used to, with the trust and devotion he had before. They simply aren’t who they were.

Shane is soft now. Even as he feels the metallic press of the gun against his thigh he has the urge to simply fling it out the window. He likes Steve and his books and his PS4 and getting drunk on his own to reruns of Frasier. He likes ice in his milk and sad dad bands of questionable quality. He’s not sure he can be the guy Ryan sees when he looks at him anymore. Greater than the fact that this marks the end of his chance at a normal life is the fear that this job, will be the end of it all.

He must fall asleep as the next thing he notices is that the car has stopped moving, the engine no longer purring beneath them, gliding effortlessly across the asphalt as Lamborghinis do. He comes round to see Ryan just sitting staring at him, his expression pained, grief stricken. “Creep.” Shane grumbles, surprising a laugh out of Ryan. He still hasn’t shaken off the tension, the weary look of loss marring his features but a small smile is better than none at all. They clamber out of the car and into the reception building of a rundown motel. Shane rolls his eyes as Ryan pays for a room under the name ‘Ricky’, tries not to scoff when he finds out the only available room only has one bed. A tragic cliche.

They don’t share it. Ryan takes the love seat, the one of the two of them that can actually fit the entirety of their limbs upon it. It feels a little like a lovers tiff, making the arrangement that sees Shane sprawled out upon the lumpy mattress and Ryan curled up on the musty smelling couch. Shane is being petty and Ryan takes it with far less complaint than he had expected from him.

The room is dark and silent, filled only by the distant noise of cars passing and their own breathing, neither of them asleep.

“I’m sorry Shane.” Ryan’s voice sounds weak and feeble. It’s so inherently _wrong_ sounding that Shane takes about 3 solid seconds before his bitterness, the seething resentment drains for him and he’s left with nothing but a hollow feeling, a longing. Shane swallows the lump in his throat, stares at Ryan’s vague outline in the half dark of the motel room. “I’ve ruined everything for you. Again.”

Shane laughs, sharp and harsh. Even in the dark he can see Ryan flinch. “Don’t flatter yourself Ry,” he sighs “I’m more than capable of ruining everything myself thank you very much.” Ryan laughs and something settles within him, a brief glimmer of normalcy. “You didn’t force me into this. I made a decision. You may have handed me the match but I struck it.”

“You can go back.” Ryan hedges.

“You know I can’t Ry. The moment you showed up on my doorstep you knew I’d say yes and you knew I couldn’t go back. You not admitting that, admitting you know _why_ , is pissing me off more than anything else.”

“I’m sorry.” Ryan says again, starting to sound like a broken record.

“I swear to God if you don’t stop apologising I’ll wreck the damn Lambo.” Shane huffs, feeling sleep tug at him like a child tugging at his sleeve, incessant and annoying, a lot like Ryan. Ryan laughs, loud and boisterous and Shane has missed the sound terribly.

“I’m not just sorry for this though.” He says solemnly, voice shaking with nerves, off kilter and over exposed. Shane finds forgiveness comes easy with Ryan, after all they both had choices to make.

“I gave you a choice and you chose.” Shane says simply, trying to make his voice sound light, unaffected “it’s not your fault that what you chose wasn’t what I wanted.”

Ryan doesn’t reply and Shane can’t leave the confession hanging, has to round things out, tiptoe toward friendship. “So if you apologise again,” he yawns “I’m _definitely_ totalling the Lambo.”

 

* * *

 

Shane wakes up slowly and with an ache in his shoulder. He’s gotten used to the comfort of his own memory foam mattress and the however brief stint on the spring riddled box of a thing has already played havoc with his disintegrating joints. He groans and almost shits himself as Ryan laughs at him from the doorway to the en-suite. He glances over at him and promptly buries himself beneath the covers, hoping he’ll suffocate.

Ryan is fresh out of the shower, towel slung around his hips and Shane is under no illusion that his attraction to Ryan has dwindled over the years and holy shit is he bigger? His shoulders look broader, his biceps almost as thick as Shane’s head and that’s quite the feat, he’s got a big head.

He can feel Ryan prodding at him through the comforter. “C’mon, rise and shine. Still not a morning person huh?” Ryan says jovially and Shane grumbles, starting to get stifled by the hot mix of his own breath beneath the bed sheets. He pops out of his cocoon to frown at Ryan’s half naked form.

“Put some damn clothes on you- you _harlot_.” He wheezes and Ryan just grins at him. He saunters over to a duffel bag lying open on the couch.

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before big guy.” He winks and drops the towel.

Shane is out of the bed so fast he almost crashes to the floor as his foot gets tangled in the comforter. He flees for the bathroom yelling something about psychopathic con men with no sense of decency as Ryan cackles gleefully at his retreating back.

Half an hour, a shower and a Starbucks drive through later they’re on their way to Van Nuys Airport. “A private jet? Really Ryan? Why not a regular commercial flight. I’m not dressed for fancy air travel.” Shane grumbles but he can’t help but smile. He’s excited. He’s never flown on a private jet before. Sure, they’ve had first class commercial flights before, Shane’s a proud member of the mile high club thanks to it, but he’s only ever seen private jets on TV. He’s always envisaged himself stepping onto one dressed to the nines, not shower damp in sweatpants and a Chicago Bulls shirt.

“I called in a favour with Andrew who then called in a favour.” Ryan says as they pull up to the airport. “It’s quicker and with over 200,000 flights entering and leaving a year, despite the extravagance, it’s less conspicuous.” The morning sun bounces off the face of the Rolex on his wrist as he parks. He rushes them inside, through security and straight to the runway, no time to spend sampling the dining halls or reclining in the luxurious lounges the airport boasts. Nervous energy thrums through Ryan and it’s evident the run in they had at Shane’s apartment has shaken him a lot more than he wants to let on. Shane is thankful Ryan let them rest for the night despite how terrified he must have been. Shane was scared too, had fallen asleep wondering if he should have listened to Ryan and let him drive through the night. They’ve been on the run before but running from organised crime syndicates is a whole different ball game, they have a greater imagination when it comes to murder.

“Hey, Ry- Ryan,” Shane starts, grinning up at Ryan as they make their way up the stairs to board the jet, “remember the last time we flew together?” He waggles his eyebrows and Ryan snorts. He takes Shane’s bag from him and throws himself into one of the plush seats as the only flight attendant starts their rendition of the safety procedures.

“What, when you got come up your nose and I spent the majority of the 6 hour flight with a concussion? Yeah I remember.” He says, his smile soft and sweet. “Those were the days.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dangerous game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy it's been a while huh? Sorry about that. I took time out from working on my own projects to start doing a bunch of writing events. I wanted to give myself a challenge and boy howdy were a lot of them a real struggle. I wanted to write a little out of my comfort zone and get some practice in so they were a great opportunity for that and I had a lot of fun. After the shyan minibang I'll be taking a break from challenges and events and just focusing on my WIPs again. So keep your eyes peeled for more updates. I've got this bad boy planned out from beginning to end so don't you worry about being left hanging (excluding the odd cliff hanger of course).

 

“I can’t live like this.” Shane mutters in dismay as he glances around the old warehouse Ryan expects them to call home. “This- this is intolerable I didn’t leave my cozy apartment and carefully crafted mood lighting set up to put my back out sleeping on wooden pallets in between shipping containers for a dollar store.” He viciously squeezes a dog toy and the resultant squeak is both hilarious and terrifying. Ryan is frankly distracted by the shift of his back muscles beneath the faded Bulls shirt he’s been wearing on the plane for the past 5 hours. How on earth he can find post flight Shane attractive is beyond him, there’s still some drool staining his collar and his hair looks like an abandoned bird’s nest. Still, he’s soft on the tired looking man, puffed up like a disgruntled pigeon at having to sleep on anything less than his king sized bed.

Shane has managed to find himself a yo-yo and Ryan can’t help but laugh as he watches him angrily yo-yoing around the warehouse, kicking at stray shipping debris like a petulant 8 foot tall child. “It’s not The Ritz,” Ryan says, dropping their bags on a stray desk, “but it’s low profile and affordable and-”

“Since when have you ever done anything low profile or affordable?”

“Since I almost got shot by the mafia Shane, we have to be careful.”

“I don’t see how some draughty old warehouse is any safer than say, a middle of the road hotel room in the city.” He says and he’s so clearly angling for them to pick up and move. Ryan feels guilty, for dragging him out here, for making him give up his perfectly happy life to get him out of hot water, so he does what he so rarely has done when it comes to Shane and he concedes.

“Okay.” He says with a shrug. He hops up onto the desk and sits there, arms folded. “I- Okay I’ll be honest I don’t have a whole lot of funds left.”

“I don’t want none unless you’ve got funds hun.” Shane says, still yo-yoing as he makes his way toward him.

“I- not gonna dignify that with a response. I had to pay a lot of people off, so I’m low on equity if you catch my drift.”

“You’re broke!” Shane cries and he’s grinning like a loon, bizarrely delighted. Ryan huffs, trying to scowl when Shane looks like he has sunshine shooting out of his ass.

“It’s not- it’s not a big deal.”

“It’s not a big deal!?” Shane all but screeches, eyebrows almost disappearing into the sweaty flop of mousey hair upon his forehead. “You once refused to let me fuck you because the thread count of the sheets in our hotel room was too low!”

Ryan gapes at him, sputters and spits as he struggles for words. He jumps from the desk and Shane finally stops yo-yoing. Ryan jabs a finger into Shane’s chest “We were drunk!” He tries to stay mad but Shane is already laughing at him, watching Ryan’s every move with delight. “We were on vacation! We were in Vegas! What happens in Vegas is supposed to stay in Vegas you jerk!”

“Never trust a con man, Mister Ricky ‘I only ride cock in sateen sheets’ Goldsworth.”

“Listen-” Ryan gasps out between bouts of laughter, “listen this ass deserves the best.”

“Oh I know” Shane says, grin turning wolfish and he is much too handsome and much too close.

“Partial to an ego stroking are we?”

“Not the only stroking I’m partial to Bergara.” He adds with an exaggerated wink and Ryan is about ready to melt. Vegas had been... Interesting.

“So!” Shane claps his hands together, catapults them away from the building tension and back to somewhere safe. “What are we gonna do? Couple of rounds of follow the lady until we’ve got enough together to book a room?” Ryan hums, considering.

“Eh it’ll take all day, and it’s a little old hat don’t you think?”

“A little- it’s a classic!” Shane cries in mock outrage. He’s picked up the yo-yo again, has started to pull it apart with deft fingertips. “Back in the day-”

“Back in the day, yeah you could maybe con a _couple_ of idiots out of 300 bucks. But _nowadays_ all the idiots have Apple pay.”

Shane shrugs “You’ve got me there.”

“I propose,” Ryan starts, rummaging in the luggage he’d dumped on the desk behind him, “a bar bill scam.” He turns around, presenting Shane with a suit jacket of a rich, deep red, as if enticing him to the scam by the sheer luxuriousness of the garment. Shane groans.

“Ugh you know I hate running those.”

“I do.”

“You always get to be the one having all the fun, whilst I just have to sit around and swipe their key.”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m cuter than you.” Ryan says throwing Shane his bag. He winks and tellingly, Shane doesn’t fight him.

 

* * *

 

There is a reason those who perform so called confidence tricks are referred to as con _artists_. It truly is an art form, requiring skill and tenacity. Shane is in some ways glad he became a con artist instead of the visual kind, everything about the hypocrisy and elitism of the art world leaves a sour taste in his mouth. What better way to get back at those beret’d snobs than to make art whilst lending a hand in flooding the market with counterfeits? Classical pieces with punk rock flair? Now that’s something Shane can jive with.

Sometimes though, Shane sees himself more as a simple phoney, a trickster. Ryan is the real con artist. He watches as he makes his entrance, a masterpiece in deep crimson, suit cut so superbly there isn’t an inch of him that doesn’t scream decadence. He saunters straight past him and if this very moment isn’t a metaphor for their entire relationship then Shane doesn’t know what is. Ryan takes the stool one place away from a man in his late thirties. He’s their mark. Shane had arrived 15 minutes prior to scope out a suitable mark and this guy is easy pickings, likely his first time in the city and his first time covering events in NY, his career progressing slower than he’d thought when he signed on to some glitzy agency likely based back in L.A. He’s rude to the staff and his card is black. That’s more than enough for Ryan, he likes them rude, can enjoy the look on their faces more on the rare occasion he gets to see it when they go to foot the bill. If money is no object you should have no objection, has always been their motto.

Shane doesn’t particularly like running bar bill scams because it often doesn’t get them much more than a few hundred dollars and a night on the town. Shane would more often than not still have to steal a key card to a vacant room in order for them to get a bed for the night. Sometimes they’d get lucky and Ryan would render their mark drunk enough to forget which room was theirs.

This time around Shane’s desperate enough for a decent bed to forgo the slight of hand and just book them a room. He makes his way quickly toward reception and snags one of their last available rooms, sure Ryan will have that black card in his possession by the end of the night to switch the payment details to by checkout time. He tunes the receptionist out as she gives him the details, signs on the dotted line under an alias and thanks the lord that he’s checked in straight away. He could’ve offered to foot the bill from the start but this bar bill scam is a good test drive, their first con as a pair after five long years. Besides, Ryan is a professional, he can be counted on to ensure it won’t cost Shane a penny. Even if Shane takes a back seat with this one it’s the perfect opportunity to just watch, observe Ryan’s plays, his tells, see if they’ve changed and adjust his own approach accordingly.

He catches Ryan’s eye as he slides back up to the bar and flags down the bartender. This might be a lot harder to watch than he first thought. Jealousy seizes Shane’s ribs, prying them open until he can feel the furious beat of his heart. His blood boils with every coy glance Ryan throws him over the mark’s shoulder. He grinds his teeth so harshly that his jaw aches. Their mark whispers something into Ryan’s ear and he stares at Shane the entire time, dark eyes beckoning him from across the room. He doesn’t know what game they’re playing now, but he knows it’s a dangerous one.

He remembers all too well what it’s like to be on the receiving end of Ryan’s charm. They’ve played these roles themselves countless times, at first just to practice, later for fun. Shane could play the gullible schmuck, let Ryan have his fun, but he’d always turn the tables, expose Ryan as a fraud and then take his compensation. Either way he played it Ryan always got what he wanted.

The man’s hand inches up Ryan’s thigh and Shane brings his bottle up to his lips, eyes glued to the fingertips shamelessly brushing his inseam.

“No.” He says around a mouthful of beer when a blonde woman slips onto the stool next to him. She smiles nonplussed. He rolls his eyes. “I know what you’re running.”

“How-”

“Your mark is 3 chairs to the right of the piano. Late 40s, made of money, here for a ‘conference’ or so he’s telling his wife. He’s been here for 3 hours and can’t hold his bourbon for shit. Mild mannered but immoral.”

“Thanks for the tip.” She says, eyeing him warily. “How the fuck did you know though?” She’s dropped the pleasantries, looking at him like competition rather than prey.

“We’re running the same exact thing.” Shane confesses, nodding at where Ryan sits pretty next to the media mogul looking for a good time. He throws back the remnants of his beer, trying to drown the jealousy. He really has become an open book as a smirk spreads across the blonde woman’s face, revealing predatory pearly whites.

“Lover?”

“Partner.”

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

“We aren’t fucking.” Shane grits out.

“Shame. Seems like you could use it.” Shane’s patience unravels quicker than a snagged thread, the spool spinning furiously. She’s gone before he can snap, sauntering over to the man he had pointed out. He’s left alone to broil.

 

* * *

 

Ryan knows better than anyone what Shane looks like when he’s seething. It’s a quiet and tempestuous thing and _Ryan loves it_. It looks the same as it had all those years ago, when Ryan’s favourite pastime had been to rile the big lummox up until he snapped. He doesn’t know what’s possessed him to fall so easily back into old routines, throwing heated gazes at his partner as their mark tries his damnedest to grope him in public. Ryan will never admit it, but every time they’ve run this scam he’s imagined it was Shane in front of him, Shane showering him with expensive cocktails and decadent hors d'oeuvres, eyes watching him, dark and hungry, Shane’s hands gripping his thigh as he whispers sweet filth to him. It doesn’t help that he can feel Shane’s gaze on him, the only time he looks away is to converse with a beautiful blonde woman. She’s gone quickly but the surge of jealousy he feels in his gut at having Shane’s attention stolen from him, if but for a moment, is biting.

He feels giddy with longing and lust when Shane catches him in the bathroom and refuses to meet his eyes, cheeks already flushed a ruddy pink. He grits out that he’ll meet him in the lobby in 30 minutes and that he’s got them a room.

“Don’t make me wait.” He says, voice even and low before he strides from the restroom. One look at him and Ryan could tell he was pissed with a capital ‘P’, and it has a heady mixture of arousal and dread coiling tightly in his belly.

It’s not as if he didn’t see this coming. It’s not as if it isn’t his own fault. Shane was only there to keep an eye on things, to make sure no one else moved in on their mark and to keep Ryan safe. There was no reason for Ryan to let his gaze keep drifting toward him, zeroing in on Shane’s lips parted around the top of his beer bottle. He knows it's unfair of him but it's instinct, falling so easily back into how he used to play this con, with Shane lounging in the bar, counting down the minutes until Ryan was done bleeding their mark dry and they could go back to a room they didn't pay for for Shane to fuck him senseless.

The hedonism, the risk, it’s addictive. Shane is addictive and he’s never quite been able to kick the habit even though he left and went cold turkey.

He manages to slip away from their mark, though he isn’t keen on letting him go. The concierge has a call for him he says. He buys it, mainly because the amount of gin he’s had means he doesn’t think to ask why whoever it is wouldn’t just call his cell. Shane waits for him in the lobby and the sight of him, collar undone, standing tall and nonchalant next to the stairs steals his breath. He hurries toward him, the teasing ‘hey big guy’ on the tip of his tongue when he feels a hand on his shoulder roughly pull him back.

Their mark stands, swaying on his feet, frowning angrily at Ryan until his gaze shifts upward. Shane stands steadily at Ryan’s back, a protective palm flattened against the small of his back even though they both know that Ryan could knock this guy’s lights out. Shane’s looming presence cows the man and Ryan has to grit his teeth that Shane, a gangling white guy always seems to garner more respect from these leches than Ryan himself does.

“Problem baby?” Ryan asks sweetly. He steps closer, plucks the black card from his breast pocket as he feigns brushing lint from the fabric of his suit.

“Who’s he?” The mark blinks dazedly, pouting a little but clearly quickly becoming entranced by Ryan once more.

“Just the staff. A mix up with some travel arrangements for my boss that needed some fixing. He’s just the liaison.”

Ryan drags his hand down the man’s chest before slipping it behind his back, the black card held delicately between his middle and index finger as he passes it off to Shane. The mark shivers as Ryan leans closer, he smells of gin and sweat and Ryan fights not to wrinkle his nose at it. “Be a darling and get me another drink?” He asks coyly, swaying a little himself, pretending to be drunk. “I can’t _wait_ for you to show me your room.” He adds suggestively and the man all but runs back to the bar and out of sight.

Ryan laughs turning to face Shane once more. “Never gets old.” He says.

“Bravo, another spectacular performance.” Shane deadpans, striding over to the front desk. He quickly switches the charges for their room to their mark’s card. Ryan slinks alongside him, veins set alight by the memory of Shane’s palm pressed possessively against his back. He feels giddy with it and realises that it didn’t take a huge amount of acting to pretend to be drunk because he’s just on the verge of tipsy. He slides a hand around Shane’s arm and he looks down at him, eyes flashing with a question. Ryan bites his lip, moves to play with the fingers of Shane’s right hand. Shane breath hitches and he catches hold of them, squeezes once before letting go. He snakes an arm around Ryan’s waist, hold firm as he guides him toward the elevator. As they walk Shane leans down, hot breath caressing the shell of his ear.

“You win.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for giving this one a shot. Hit me up in the comments or over on [tumblr](https://mercury-skies.tumblr.com/)!


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